


living in the worst parts

by lumoshyperion



Category: Harry Potter and the Cursed Child - Thorne & Rowling
Genre: Albus Potter's birthday, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, au where his birthday is on hallow's eve
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-16
Updated: 2020-07-16
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:47:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24821839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lumoshyperion/pseuds/lumoshyperion
Summary: There was always something different about Albus Potter's birthdays. Something more quiet, more subdued than that of his cousins and siblings. He always knew that the night of October 31st had a certain significance to his dad. But it was a secret, carefully guarded by his parents.
Comments: 16
Kudos: 34





	living in the worst parts

"green eyes flicked with yellow, dried leaves on the surface of a pool-  
you could drown in those eyes, I said.  
the fact of his pulse, the way he pulled his body in,  
out of shyness or shame or a desire  
not to disturb the air around him."

\- richard siken

There was always something different about Albus Potter's birthdays. Something more quiet, more subdued than that of his cousins and siblings. He always knew that the night of October 31st had a certain significance to his dad. But it was a secret, carefully guarded by his parents. When Albus was a child, he would lie awake in bed, a small stack of presents on the floor next to him and his stomach full of chocolate cake, and listen to his parents talking well into the night.

A part of him always wondered if it was something to do with him. Had he not seemed grateful enough for the gifts? Had they spent too much on them? Maybe in the morning he could ask to send them back to the store. But his parents always laughed him off, his mother ruffling his hair and saying that he was “too good”. If he was too good, why were they always so quiet on the night of his birthday? Why did his dad always go to bed so early?

He tried to ask James about it. Having an older brother meant that he would always have someone to ask the sort of things that his parents wouldn’t answer. But James would just smile at him and ask to see his birthday presents, moaning about how much cooler they were than the ones he got that same year.

Albus was eight when he finally found out what was so different about his birthday. He was staying over at the Burrow with Rose, Hugo, and Lily. It was the third week of Spring, although there was still a chill in the air, as the last echos of Winter rang out across the fields beyond the old house. He was in the kitchen, waiting for his grandmother to return from the garden so he could ask if she wanted any help making dinner. He loved helping out in the kitchen.

But it had been a while since she left, so he decided to go out and see if there was something he could carry for her. As he made his way down the hall and towards the back door, he heard his cousin talking and stopped. He thought he heard his name and ducked under the stairwell, hoping to hear what she was talking about. Rose always had something interesting to say. And Albus loved to listen.

“But I don’t understand why Aunt Ginny and Uncle Harry won’t tell him? Doesn’t he deserve to know what happened on his birthday?” Rose asked.

Albus felt his stomach drop as he sat down on the dusty floor. He heard footsteps approaching the house, their boots crunching on the grass, and he pulled his knees up to his chin. _What was she talking about?_

“He does, and they’ll tell him one day, but he’s just too young to understand,” Grandma Molly explained, opening the door and leading Rose inside. “And I hope that you won’t tell him.”

He heard Rose kick her shoes off with a loud, frustrated huff of air. “I won’t. But I still think _they_ should tell him.”

“They’ll tell him when he’s ready, dear,” Molly replied, before making her way down the hall. Albus stood up and almost bumped his head on the stair above him in an effort to quietly follow them. “And that’s not for me to decide or for you to judge.”

“I just don’t understand why he’s too young to know. We’re the same age,” Rose went on, and Albus took advantage of the sound of her chair scraping across the floor to tip toe closer to the kitchen doorway. “And if it were me, I’d want to know what happened to my grandparents.”

“They were murdered, Rose. And twenty five years later, on the same day, your cousin was born. I don’t think he needs to know just yet, do you?” Molly paused and sniffed. “Now, help me get these into the sink so I can wash them.”

Albus froze. He felt as if the air had been kicked out of him, as he leaned back against the wall and stared at the cracks in the ceiling. He used to try and find shapes in their patterns. Animals from the zoo and dragons that his uncle would show pictures of at Christmas, promising that one day Albus would be old enough to meet them. He wanted to crawl into one of those cracks, making himself as small as one of the garden sprites that danced at his bedroom window on warm Summer evenings, and forget what he had just heard.

A part of him hoped it wasn’t true. Maybe he’d misheard them, or maybe Rose was playing tricks on him. But he couldn’t deny how much sense it made. And he couldn’t ignore the strange release of having an answer to a question he’d been asking for as long as he could remember. He just wished it was different. And he wished he could stop the cruel voice in his head, telling them that this was all his fault, as if he had chosen to be born on such a terrible day.

He wished for a lot of things that he could never have. So he waited until Rose left the kitchen, before going back in and giving a weak smile to his grandmother. “Can I help with dinner?”

The year after that, his parents found him out in the garden one day. He could tell they had been watching him for a while, before he’d noticed them standing there. They were holding hands. His father had that pinched expression he sometimes wore after a particularly long day at work.

“Al, there’s something we need to tell you,” his mother said.

Albus stood up and shoved his hands into his pockets. He looked at them and wondered if this was the conversation he’d been waiting for since that afternoon at the Burrow. “Okay.”

“It’s about my parents,” Harry began, tentatively. His hand was making nervous fists around the knitted fabric of his jumper. “It’s about how they died.”

Albus looked down at the grass. The tips were still covered in frost. It glistened in the midday sunshine, and Albus tried not to cry. “I know. I’ve known since last year.”

There was a silence following his reply. And he suddenly decided that he didn’t want them to say anything at all. He just wanted that dreadful moment to be over. There was a dark, heavy feeling in his stomach - like he hadn’t eaten all day. An older, wiser Albus would have named that feeling as guilt.

But he was still so young, then. His shoelaces were always untied and his hair was always a mess. He was still small enough for his brother to carry him on his shoulders, but big enough to help his sister stop crying when she was sad.

His mother said something as he went back up to the house, although he didn’t listen. Sometimes, he felt that people could talk and talk without saying anything at all.

* * *

Scorpius exhaled, watching his breath turn into mist and then evaporate in the cold air of Godric’s Hollow. Somewhere in the village, a bell rang, and he instinctively reached down for his wrist. He’d taken his watch off before changing for bed. He had no idea what time it was, or how long they had been waiting outside in the cold.

He glanced over at Albus, watching as he zipped and unzipped his jacket, gazing doggedly out into the street. They had agreed to keep their distance from the Potter house, while still maintaining a close eye on the family. It had been snowing on and off, and Mrs. Potter kept bringing baby Harry outside to catch snowflakes. He was thoroughly delighted by them, as they dissolved in his hands and on the tip of his red nose.

The bell stopped ringing and Scorpius sighed. It was getting late. They had no idea when Delphi would arrive, and no way to stop her. Soon it would be nightfall and soon the happiness of that little house would be shattered. Albus had always struggled with this date, and everything it contained.

And then it hit him. He looked back at Albus, his heart suddenly in the pit of his stomach. “It’s... It’s your birthday. I forgot.”

The expression on Albus’ face dropped. His eyes went dark as he stared down at his feet. “Oh.”

Scorpius didn’t know what to say. He couldn’t believe he’d forgot. They’d been watching James and Lily for what felt like hours, after a whole day of travel just to get there. They’d taken turns sleeping on the train and barely spoken. There wasn’t anything to say - not then and not now.

“We tell my granddad and grandma,” Albus suddenly suggested from beside him.

It took Scorpius a moment to process what he had said and why the conversation had taken such a sharp turn. He shook his head and frowned. “That they’ll never get to see their son grow up?”

“She’s strong enough,” he said, staring across the road at Lily and Harry Potter, and Scorpius knew that he couldn’t question him. He couldn’t deny the depth of his gaze and the love behind it, as though Albus was watching Molly Weasley tending to her garden and not a grandmother that he could never meet. “I know she is.”

They brainstormed for a while, before landing on a solution. They would send a message to the future, on the blanket young Harry was wrapped in and would give to his son the night before fourth year. It was brilliant. And it was Albus’ idea. The smile he wore as they bounced ideas off each other in the snow was bright and rare and Scorpius wanted to bask in it.

Before they left Bathilda’s house, he slipped a chocolate bar from the kitchen into his pocket. Once they’d returned the blanket to baby Harry’s pram and settled back into their spot across the road from the Potter house, he gave it to Albus.

“Where did you get this?” Albus asked, picking at the plastic wrapper. When Scorpius wouldn’t answer, he looked up, saw his sheepish expression, and smiled. “You stole it? You stole from Bathilda Bagshot?”

“Well, we also stole wands and potion supplies from her, but you’re worried about some chocolate?” Albus shrugged and looked away. Scorpius kicked at the grass, watching as baby Harry giggled at his father’s magic tricks. “I just wanted to give you something. I know this isn’t ideal, but… I wanted to do something for today.”

“It’s not like we would have done much at home, anyway. Maybe lunch, some gifts… Nan and Gran might have come over…” He trailed off and Scorpius kept watching the house, waiting for him to continue. But then he heard it. The soft whimpering, muffled by a puffer jacket sleeve. Albus was crying.

He shuffled over to his side and put a hand on his back. “Albus? Albus, what is it?”

Albus was trembling all over, sobbing into his sleeve as Scorpius rubbed his back in soothing circles. He remembered a moment like this, during their second year at Hogwarts. Albus had come back from spending his birthday at home with his parents and immediately gone up to their dorm room to cry in his bed. Scorpius asked what had happened, what went wrong, and what he could do. But Albus never answered. 

He asked to spend his next birthday at Hogwarts, and Scorpius did everything he could to make it better for him. But it wasn’t enough. His cousins were quiet, his brother and sister seemed to think he’d intentionally upset their parents by staying at school. And Albus only retreated further and further into himself as the day went on.

Scorpius promised his fourteenth birthday would be better. It landed on a Saturday, so they could spend the day however they wanted. Instead, they were sitting in the snow at Godric’s Hollow, waiting for something which they had no control over.

He thought he heard Albus whispering and frowned. “Albus? What is it? What can I do?”

“They’re never going to forgive me, are they?” He repeated, into his sleeve.

Scorpius opened his mouth to respond, but stopped when he heard a familiar sound from somewhere in village. It was a loud crack. Almost like the sound of an apparition, but muffled. Scorpius turned to Albus, his fist grasping the fabric of his jacket with unbridled anticipation as they scrambled to their feet and followed the noise. They found them one street over, standing together under a streetlamp.

“Mum?” Albus sobbed.

* * *

In spite of the charms they cast when they arrived in the church, Harry still felt a chill as he stood in the large doorway and watched the empty street below. The relief upon finding Albus and Scorpius was so quickly replaced with feverish planning and unnerving anticipation. They had no idea when or how Delphi would arrive. No idea what she was planning, or whether or not she knew that they were waiting for her. Harry had been through nights like this before. But this was different.

He clenched and unclenched his fist at his side, as his fingertips brushed the scar on the back of his hand. He watched, and waited, and it seemed as though the seconds lasted eternities. He was so aware of the quiet conversation taking place behind him, but dared not turn around and watch them. He felt like a distant bystander in the face of the casual intimacy between Albus and Ginny. They knew each other so well. And Harry felt like he didn't know Albus at all.

He kept running through their last conversation before he ran away, over and over again in his mind. He'd wanted to give him something that mattered, that meant something. He wanted to show Albus that he meant just as much to him as his parent's memory. But Albus had misunderstood and thrown the sentiment right back in his face.

Sometimes, when he was growing up, he would hear stories about his parents, and would feel this strange jealousy. Almost as if he wanted their memories all to himself. He hated that someone else knew them better than he ever could. And Harry wondered if he might have something with which he could relate to Albus after all. But it was a horrible, lonely feeling, and he couldn’t wish it on anyone. And yet he’d let this happen.

He’d left Albus with his anger and resentment, he’d pushed him away until he had no option other than a stranger that offered the one thing his son couldn’t refuse - friendship, and the chance to prove himself. The chance to do some good. For all their arguments and distance, Harry knew that Albus was kind. He would sooner befriend a troublesome pixie in their garden, rather than leave it out in the cold. When Ginny pulled them both aside on their way to the church, and told Albus how sorry they were that his birthday had turned out like this - he only smiled back at her and said, “I’m just glad you’re here. That’s the best present I’ve ever gotten.” And as Harry watched Albus sharing that quiet moment with Ginny, he wished he could be a part of it.

“I can take over, if you like?” a voice asked from beside him.

Harry looked up at Astoria Malfoy’s kind face. Behind her, Draco and Scorpius were sitting in the pews together, their heads bowed in a deep discussion. Scorpius had a blissful smile on his face and Draco’s expression was unguarded in ways Harry had never seen before.

He glanced back at his wife and son. Ginny was holding Albus, her fingers carding through his thick black hair. He gave a long, rattling sigh, and shook his head. “No, it’s alright. But thank you.”

* * *

The empty street in Godric’s Hollow was quiet and bitterly cold, as they stood and watched as Lord Voldemort entered the house of James and Lily Potter. Harry couldn’t stop staring at the well kept flowers, the toys on the doorstep, and the warm glow from the windows. He felt such emptiness as he stared at that house. He wanted to look to Hermione, catching her gaze in a knowing moment as they remembered the last time they were there. A sort of anchor in this great expanse of grief, roiling under his skin. But his eyes were fixed on the house.

“Voldemort is going to kill my mum and dad, and… there’s nothing I can do to stop him,” He said, hopelessly.

“That’s not true,” Draco uttered from somewhere to his right.

“ _Draco_ ,” Astoria admonished him.

“There is something you could do, to stop him…” Harry tore his gaze away from the house and looked over at Albus. His big green eyes were full of tears as he looked back up at him, his expression full of a sorrow beyond his years. He hadn’t noticed his hands around his arm, until he squeezed it, and said, “But you won’t.”

“That’s heroic,” Draco agreed.

“You don’t have to watch, Harry. We can go home,” Ginny whispered. He could feel her breath on his neck, the warmth of her hand in his.

But Harry was still staring at Albus. Those green eyes had turned back to the house across the street, his tear stained face glistening underneath the lamplight. He was so brave, and so kind. And Harry knew the one thing that he could do for him in that moment. He turned back to Ginny and squeezed her hand. “Let’s go home.”

**Author's Note:**

> inspired by a conversation with my friend, iz, over twitter DMs! title is from richard siken's poem, birds hover the trampled field: "I wanted to explain myself to myself in an understandable way. I gave shape to my fears and made excuses. I varied my velocities, watched myselves sleep. something's not right about what I'm doing but I'm still doing it - living in the worst parts, ruining myself. my inner life is a sheet of black glass. if I fell through the floor I would keep falling."
> 
> I was going to end on a scene where Albus and Harry get the chance to talk, but I think it'll take a lot longer than that to resolve everything. it felt cheap to have them attempt to sort through years of trauma, in one conversation. and I'm already writing a post-Godric's Hollow fic, which is really just rehashing a lot of the stuff I would have explored here anyway. I hope you liked this short fic! let me know in the comments <3


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